Mending Hearts

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  Miriam shriveled inside, hating the feeling but still knowing his withdrawal had squelched her confidence, making her think she’d imagined him opening up to her. Maybe that was just as well; what had she been thinking, to say things to him she hadn’t even to friends or her brothers? She and Julia had skirted around the subject of women’s roles among the Amish, but Miriam’s new sister-in-law was honest about wanting a family more than she’d ever wanted an important career. And it wasn’t as if Miriam had yearned to be in charge of other people in a work setting. She didn’t even imagine someday owning her own quilt shop.

  Confused and troubled, she nodded when David told her, in that distant way she hated, to thank her mother before picking up the heavy basket and backing away.

  Miriam nodded and lifted the reins, clicking her tongue at Polly to circle and start down the driveway. She didn’t so much as look at David as she flicked the reins to urge the mare to break into a trot.

  She should have pressed Mamm to deliver the basket herself when on her way to see Rose.

  * * *

  * * *

  Given that he should be glad if Miriam stayed away from him from now on, David felt sick as he stood in the kitchen looking down at the basket full of food. He’d been so happy after the last time he saw her, and now he’d hurt her. Not because he meant to, but to protect himself. He hurt from the reminder that she’d never really seen him. Her telling him she was sorry for just that had stung, when that wasn’t what she’d intended.

  Saying that about her shying away from marriage had burst out of him. He’d seen her shock, but not yet hurt. No, that came when he shrugged off her emotional reaction and suggested he didn’t have time to bother talking to her.

  Would she give him the chance to apologize? Yet how could he explain why he’d dismissed her like that? Should he apologize, or would it be best for both of them if he’d succeeded in breaking off the tiny green shoot that might have grown into real friendship between them?

  Aching, conflicted, he emptied the basket, placing a smaller, padded basket of eggs in his refrigerator, leaving the canned goods and the loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table.

  With his mood so dark, he was tempted to put off Esther for another day, but knew he couldn’t let himself do that. He must keep commitments, whether they’d been made to other people or only to himself.

  Traffic was light. If a tourist or two passed, he didn’t notice. He did surface enough to feel mild curiosity about who now farmed the place this side of the Schwartz land. When he left home, an Englisch family had lived there. Now, the electrical wires had been taken down, and he saw a wagon by the barn but no cars. Buildings had fresh paint, as did board fences. Corn marched in neat rows that rose and fell with the gently rolling, well-cultivated land. Ah, well; his mamm or daad would be glad to tell him all about a new neighbor.

  He tied his horse to the new sturdy post he’d put in place Tuesday, then took out his gloves, a canvas tarp, and a scraper. There ought to be a ladder in Esther’s barn or shed; if not, he’d bring one the next time he came. There was plenty of siding with peeling paint he could reach from the ground.

  He knocked first at the front door, although there’d been a time he would never have thought to use anything but the back door. In general, the Amish used their front doors only for formal occasions, or to let in a stranger.

  These days, he felt like a stranger.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a curtain twitch, but she didn’t come to the door today, either. With a shrug, he decided to start on the side of the house and work his way back around to the front.

  He had spread the tarp on what had once been a flowerbed, when he saw a man striding through the fruit trees toward him. Amish, but no one he knew.

  Nodding a greeting as he straightened, he said, “I’m David Miller. I was friends with Esther’s son, Levi, when we were boys.”

  “Gideon Lantz. I bought the farm next door this winter.”

  The fellow assessed David, even as he did the same. This Gideon Lantz was older than David, at a guess, but not by more than a few years. He did have a beard, so he was married or at least had been. He was a solidly built man, his hair and eyes both dark, uncommon among the Amish. His reserve was understandable, given that he’d found a seeming stranger making himself at home at a neighbor’s place.

  “You must not be in my church district.” David gestured. “My parents, Judith and Isaac Miller, own the farm across the road.”

  “Ah. I’ve met them. No, I have a cousin who talked big about Bishop Benjamin Ropp, so that’s where I worship.”

  “I’ve heard nothing but good about him. A fine preacher, ain’t so?” That was a shot in the dark, but a safe enough one. Who was going to say, Ach, my bishop is such a blabbermaul, he gives me a backache by the time he’s done speaking?

  “Ja.” Gideon visibly hesitated. “I would like to do more to help Esther, but she turns me away.”

  “I plan to do the work I can unless she comes out of the house to chase me away with her broom.”

  A hint of laughter lightened the neighbor’s somber face. “I would do the same, if I knew her better.”

  David shrugged. “She gave me permission to mow the orchard, and didn’t come out to complain when I did that or when I came back to replace the hitching post. Now I plan to scrape the loose paint on the house and then put on a new coat.”

  “I would be glad to help.”

  Pleased by the instant response, David said, “I’ll accept when I start painting.”

  “I’ve started a job I must get back to today, but we can set a day to paint. I can ask others to join us.”

  David said, “I think there are enough who are near neighbors who will be glad to help, without you talking to people who would have to come farther. I know my daad won’t hesitate, for certain sure. He’s chafed at having to see this good property deteriorate.”

  “He’s not alone in that.”

  “Do you know who farms Esther’s fields?” David asked.

  “Oh, ja, a young fellow who can’t afford his own land, but is glad to have this chance. Not much over twenty years old, I think, but he’s done a good job. Mark Yoder. His parents live less than a mile down the road.”

  “Albert and Sharon Yoder,” David said, nodding. “I know them. They have three sons.” Their oldest, Micah, had been a close friend of his. “I’ve been away for a few years, but just inherited a farm from my father’s onkel, Hiram Miller.”

  “I don’t think I met him, but I know where that is. It’s good land.”

  “Yours is, too. The people before you didn’t do much with it.”

  David almost asked where Gideon had lived before moving here, and whether he had a wife and children, but refrained. Mamm would know and be glad to tell him, but despite his friendliness, this neighbor had a guarded air that made David suspect he had his own sore places. He might have moved to Tompkin’s Mill because he’d been looking for a good piece of land at a reasonable price, but he might also have needed to leave behind memories. David hadn’t blurted right out that he was under the bann, either.

  They settled on a day to do the painting, a week from this coming Saturday, which would take them into June. David promised to let him know if the schedules of other volunteers altered that. Then Gideon strode back the way he’d come, and David finally started work. He was glad to find his mood had improved—and that Esther had not popped out of the house with that broom in her hand.

  He felt sorry for her, a woman who wanted to hoard her grief or bitterness more than she wanted her house to look tidy, or meals to be brought to her, or to be gathered close by her sisters under God. Perhaps, if he forced the matter, she might be glad. His conscience and faith compelled him, but he also knew he was doing what Miriam would expect of him.

  David was disturbed that she’d jumped so readily into his head. He�
��d hoped his fascination with her would have waned with the years. If she’d married and was now a plump mother with three children, he might have found that so. Instead, she was still single and as pretty as ever.

  He’d resented her unswerving focus on Levi, and yet look at him! He was no better. Running away had done him no good. He would never have more than friendship with her, but that was better than nothing, wasn’t it? There might be times it would be torment . . . but hurting Miriam and thinking she’d avoid him in future, that was torment of a different kind. He hoped—no, he knew—that she would hear and accept his apology for being so short with her the other day. Forgiveness came readily to a woman as kindhearted as Miriam.

  Heart immediately feeling lighter, he plied the scraper on the siding, a long peel of dried white paint dropping to the tarp.

  * * *

  * * *

  Although set well back, up a rise, David’s house and barnyard were exposed to the road in a way the Bowmans’ house wasn’t. Fields where corn had once thrived hadn’t been planted this spring. Only an overgrown field on one side and pasture on the other separated the road from the house. Whenever Miriam passed, she would often be able to see him if he was out working . . . assuming she looked. Alone, she could refuse to turn her head, but most often she rode with Daad or, less often, with Luke and Julia, and couldn’t resist the interest raised by their comments.

  “Ach, is that an arena he’s building, do you think?” Daad remarked on Friday.

  What else could it be, given the size laid out by bright twine strung from one stake to another in a huge oval, and the fact that the area he was fencing in was the largest flat land on the property? This time, David himself wasn’t in sight.

  “He plans to train harness horses,” she had to say. “I thought everyone knew.”

  Saturday, she was in Luke’s buggy. He remarked, “There’s David. Why don’t we stop and ask him to join us for dinner?” He, Julia, and Abby stayed two or three evenings a week. Adding one more person at the table would be no challenge for Mamm, who couldn’t seem to help herself from cooking enough to feed an additional family or two.

  Miriam opened her mouth to say, We shouldn’t bother him, or even, Remember he’s under the bann, but decided not to share either thought. Both were . . . uncharitable. She could be kind and keep her distance. Jesus had entreated the faithful to be at peace among themselves. She wouldn’t prejudice her family against him.

  Her brother’s especially handsome harness horse swept the large buggy up the neighbor’s lane and danced when Luke reined him in at the top. Looking surprised but welcoming, David thrust a shovel into the ground, stepped over the string still encircling his future arena, and walked over to them.

  “Luke, Julia.” His gaze touched on Miriam, seated in the back, and he bent his head. “Miriam.”

  Daad had spent today in the workshop he had in the barn. Sometimes, even just the two of them would get in each other’s way, he would say.

  “We’re hoping you’ll join us for dinner,” Luke said. “You know my mother takes care of Abby while we work. Julia and I stay to eat two or three nights a week. Mamm likes to feed us.” He smiled. “Mamm likes to feed everyone.”

  “She can’t expect me.”

  Luke snorted. “There is always plenty. She’s a good cook.”

  David smiled crookedly. “Ja, Deborah sent food over Thursday.” He hesitated. “If you’re certain.” Again, he glanced at Miriam.

  Luke was the one to answer. “Glad to have you, we’d be.”

  “Then denke, I’ll walk over.”

  “Why don’t you ride with us? There’s plenty of room.”

  Next to me. Although Miriam had no idea why the idea of his sitting so close made her uneasy. She pinned a pleasant smile on her face.

  “I should wash up, change.”

  Luke shook his head. “No need. Look at me.”

  He’d grumbled already about stumbling and falling against a newly stained headboard for a bed. Miriam doubted the dark brown color would wash out of his blue shirt.

  David hesitated again, but nodded. Leaving the shovel where it was, he came around, slid open the door, and got into the buggy next to Miriam.

  “You don’t have any dogs,” she remarked, both because she’d just thought of it and because she felt compelled to say something. Until the past year or two, her family had always had at least two dogs. Her father had been especially fond of Bisskatz, a black-and-white spaniel and hound mix named for his skunk-like coloration. The old fellow had died in his sleep the winter before last. Daad hadn’t suggested replacing him and his sister, who had passed first.

  “I hadn’t thought.” David’s tone was odd. “I couldn’t have one anywhere I lived these past few years. But now . . . it’s spring, a good time to find puppies.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed. “You might want cats for the barn, too.”

  His eyes seemed to smile at her, even if his mouth didn’t. “Those, I have. Not friendly, but good mousers. They might like me better if I get a milch cow.”

  “Ja.” She chuckled. Their cats had always loved it when Daad had turned a stream of milk their way, or filled a pan with warm milk for them.

  Julia had her head turned to listen to them, and now smiled at Miriam. “Luke doesn’t trust me to milk ours yet.”

  “Because when you do, milk dribbles out instead of squirting. What I can do in a few minutes would take you an hour.”

  Miriam could see only the back of her brother’s head—more accurately, the back of his straw hat—but heard his amusement fine. He had all the patience in the world for Julia, learning not only the Amish ways, but also how to live surrounded by the countryside and farm animals rather than city streets and cars. Perhaps fortunately, she was a fine cook and quilter. Ja, and an even better mammi to five-year-old Abby.

  Hearing the tenderness that accompanied the amusement in Luke’s voice did give Miriam a momentary pang, the same as she occasionally felt when she saw the way he looked at Julia. Miriam loved them both and felt only gladness that they’d found each other . . . but sometimes she feared that pang was envy. No, yearning might be a better word than envy. Nobody had ever looked at her the way Luke did his wife.

  For an instant it seemed Miriam’s heart stopped. Suddenly desolate, she knew; she had never seen that expression in Levi’s eyes, in the curve of his lips. He’d loved her, she was sure of that, until he’d seen her flaws, but his love might have been that of a lifelong friendship that had stumbled into a courtship.

  A warm hand clasped her arm. “Is something wrong?” David asked her, his voice a mere rumble in her ear, so quiet neither Julia nor Luke could have made out his words above the clomp of Charlie’s steel-shod hooves.

  Aware they were about to stop in front of the house, she shook her head, unable to make herself meet David’s eyes. “I . . . no.” Her tongue touched her lips. “Just . . . one of those unsettling thoughts, but nothing important.”

  He took back his hand, but she felt him watching her. “If you need to talk—”

  On a spurt of panic, she could only think that he was the last person in the world in whom she could confide. Well, him and Esther. Neither would understand.

  All she could do was cast a meaningless smile in David’s direction and murmur, “Denke,” even as she opened the buggy door and climbed out on the opposite side from him.

  Chapter Seven

  Miriam found herself seated beside David Miller again, this time at the Bowman family dinner table. Not squeezed in the way they’d been at the meal on his front lawn, but she couldn’t forget even for a minute that it was him so close, his arm that brushed hers occasionally. By chance, Elam had dropped by hoping to be fed, too, so he sat on Miriam’s other side.

  Since David’s return, he and Elam hadn’t yet spoken, she learned. Both new owners of their farms, they talk
ed across her, Elam enthusiastic to share what he’d learned about growing organic crops, David with questions about planting a sizable field of hay at this time of year. Neither Daad nor Luke had much to contribute; Daad had always leased out the fields here to be farmed by a neighbor, with the result that Luke had never learned more than the basics of farming. He and Daad both helped members of their church and could milk dairy cows or plow or harvest a field in a pinch, but knew they weren’t the experts that David needed to advise him.

  “Farming has never interested me,” Luke admitted when David asked. “I liked woodworking, but during my rumspringa, mostly I dreamed about going to college. Since coming home”—he grinned—“I’m happy to listen to Elam talk, but mostly confine my help to work on his house.”

  “We’ve put in a big vegetable garden,” Julia said, her Deitsh more fluent all the time. “With a whole lot of help from Deborah. Between books and what Luke remembers from growing up, we got started, but neither of us had any idea how much to plant to be able to harvest enough to eat fresh and can for the rest of the year.” She smiled affectionately at Luke’s mother. “Now I just have to learn how to can my produce when the time comes.”

  David chuckled. “I don’t plan to do that.”

  “Ach, you need a wife,” Mamm declared. “You can’t do everything.”

  Miriam felt him stiffen. Oh, for only a few seconds before he must have deliberately relaxed and said, with a humorous undertone, “Ja, my mother says the same.” He paused. “Often.”

  They all laughed. Luke and Elam both teased Mamm about her nagging, although she had the last, smug word when she pointed out how happy Luke was, married now, and how eager Elam was for his own wedding.

  “Wasn’t I right?” she asked.

  Her two sons grinned.